


Control

by notjustmom, scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, Mycroft doesn't have time for your nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is always the picture of self restraint.</p><p>But what if he weren't? What if he exhibited just a bit less self control. But only when the situation requires, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clothesline

**Author's Note:**

> [notjustmom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom) found a meme that presented an interesting idea...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> __**If Mycroft had a bit less self control**  
>  Mycroft: What might we deduce about his heart?  
> John: I don't know.  
> Mycroft: *sips tea*  
> John: ...  
> Mycroft: *bonks John's head with his umbrella*  
> John: Mycroft?! What the hell-  
> Mycroft: HE'S FUCKING IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU MORONIC GOLDFISH.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Which led to discussion, of course, and we thought perhaps it was a matter that needed to be explored. So, this compilation is going to be a joint effort. Each chapter will be its own little story, just as inspiration strikes. We're not interested in chronological order, or even sticking true to canon, of course, just having fun. And if you have any ideas along the way, just post them in the comments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft really just needs Sherlock to listen for five bloody minutes.
> 
> scrub456 here... Hope you enjoy this first installment.

It was completely unacceptable that John had gone to a medical conference in Edinburgh. Three days he was gone. Worse yet, Lestrade had called with the case on day two. A six that had quickly become an eight. 

Sherlock had tried to guilt John into coming home, as his medical expertise would be an asset. Sherlock didn't _need_ John's medical knowledge, mind you. He could very well solve the case on his own. But the evidence would prove to be far more damning with confirmation from a medical professional. It was the sort of thing a jury would eat up, and John always proved to be an excellent expert witness.

But John had refused to leave the conference early, citing the mundane need to maintain his medical license. Now he was on the long train ride back to London, and the mobile service was abysmal.

Sherlock, in quite a thorough strop, had organized and re-organized the evidence pinned to the sitting room wall in an effort to come to a conclusion Lestrade would accept without John's input. He'd thrown himself down on the sofa to think, and had come to the conclusion that perhaps one of John's medical textbooks would provide the information he needed. One of the textbooks on one of the bookshelves all the way across the room.

_Not worth the effort._

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock set about re-ordering the evidence in his mind palace. He'd been at it mere minutes -- certainly not more than a few hours -- when he was stirred from his thoughts by someone clearing their throat.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"You do realize your flatmate is not here, don't you?" The elder Holmes stood in the doorway to the kitchen sipping tea from one of Mrs. Hudson's nicest bone china teacups.

"Of course I am aware. What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock snapped as he pushed himself to sit upright. He scowled at the teacup in Mycroft's hand. 

"You've been carrying on a rather one sided conversation with him for quite some time now."

"It's all part of the process." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. Mycroft raised a single, smug eyebrow. "Shut up, Mycroft. Why are you here?"

"I thought it only appropriate to remind you..."

Blatantly ignoring Mycroft's dull droning, and deciding it was as good a time as any, Sherlock leaped up from the sofa, stepped over the coffee table, and made his way to the bookshelves. He selected a few titles and returned to lay them out on the table. He flipped through them quickly and was unsatisfied with what he found there. Certainly the Gray's Anatomy, or perhaps the textbook on blood, would have what he was looking for. 

Mycroft watched on in exasperated silence. He was well use to being ignored by Sherlock, but they'd already wasted enough time. The luncheon with the Prime Minister could not be put off again, and there was a conference call that would be deciding the fate of... Well... It was a _very_ important call. The time for propriety had passed.

Sherlock turned at a frantic pace just as Mycroft took two quick steps forward. Stretching out one elegant bespoke suit clad arm, he caught Sherlock, completely off his guard, right across the neck. The force was enough to knock the younger Holmes off his feet and he landed flat on his back with a sickening thud. 

Taking a sip from his undisturbed tea, Mycroft watched on as Sherlock rolled into a recovery position and struggled to regain his breath.

" _(gasp)_... wh-what... _(gaspgaspcough)_... was that... _(coughwheezegasp)_ " Sherlock attempted to prop himself up on his elbow, but devolved into a coughing fit.

"If you're quite ready to listen, I was attempting to remind you that tomorrow is mummy's birthday. You have plenty of time to order flowers to be delivered, but at the very least you should remember to call her." Mycroft sat his teacup down on the side table next to John's chair, smoothed the front of his suit, and turned back to face Sherlock. "Also, I think you'll find that if you switch the piece of evidence pinned up by the red thumbtack with the one pinned up by the blue thumbtack, your dilemma will be solved." 

Still struggling to catch his breath, Sherlock flopped onto his back and flapped his hand in Mycroft's general direction. 

"Indeed. Good day, brother mine." With an infuriatingly imperious smile, Mycroft took up his umbrella and was gone. 


	2. Boltholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the first scene where they actually appear on screen together. What would happen if Mycroft finally gave into sentiment and his feelings for Lestrade?

"Five known bolt holes...There’s the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery..."

"Are you sure that's all of them?" Lestrade narrows his eyes at him, not sure whether he's helping him or helping Sherlock to stay hidden.

Mycroft nods and begins to wave Lestrade away, then stands. "Please, Gregory... Stay?"

"Are you all right?"

"No. Of course I'm not. Dr. Watson's wife recently shot my brother in the chest; I watched him die on the table, he was dead for two minutes, two minutes, Gregory, and then I watched him, he fought back for some reason, and now days later, he's vanished. No, I'm far from all right."

Lestrade is trying to compute everything that Mycroft has just told him, when Mycroft is standing in front of him, his hands on his chest, asking him something.

"What?"

"I said, 'I have always considered you attractive, Gregory and right now, all I want to do is kiss you and..' "

Lestrade lets his phone fall to the beautiful Persian rug and he grabs Mycroft's face, looks into his eyes and kisses him roughly, for almost as long as Sherlock was dead. 

"...and....?"

Mycroft pushes Lestrade against the door to his office and locks the door.

"...he's at Leinster Gardens with Mary and John. He needs time. I know he's crazy, but he needs to finish this his way. I promised him enough time."

"Myc-"

"He's my brother, Gregory, I owe him, and I really, really need you to make me forget right now. Please, help me forget for a few minutes?"

Lestrade answers him with a gentle nod, fingers on his zip and Mycroft whimpers as the bespoke trousers fall to the floor.


	3. Brother, Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen year old Mycroft defends his brother...

"Freak! Sherrrr-LOCK!! Yeah...run home to your mum..."

Mycroft threw down the Financial Times, picked up his umbrella and headed outside. He looked down the street to see Sherlock not running, but walking home, head down, trying so hard not to cry.

He was used to being bullied, in fact he still was, due to being the tallest, largest and smartest of his year. But, no one, especially this ignorant horde of idiots, was going to make his eight year old brother feel like he was anything less than the extraordinary person he was.

Mycroft strolled nonchalantly past his brother, whispering, "Go home and wash your face, brother, mine. I'll take care of them."

Sherlock looked up at his brother and tried to smile. "Thanks, Myc." He kept walking, his posture ramrod straight now, and a giggle threatened to escape, knowing what the boys were in for.

"Who's first?" 

"Oh...Fatty Holmes....what? Your brother too chicken to fight his own battles? What, you gonna sit on us?"

Mycroft sighed. "You are a bigger idiot than your brother. Didn't he tell you about me? About how he got the broken nose and the busted kneecap?"

"Righhhht...he told me a gang beat him up....no way...." He foolishly crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

Mycroft looked down at him in the imperious way that would later serve him well in his unofficial capacity of the 'British Government,' and the gang scattered, leaving one stubborn eight year old who was not quite as scared as he should have been. 

"Do you really want to try telling a story tomorrow about how a gang beat you up when all of your so-called 'friends' tell a different tale? Hmmmmm.....?" Mycroft tapped the umbrella against the side of his leg and waited. 

"Uhm...hmmm, uh-uh."

"Uh-uh, what?"

"Uh-uh, sir?"

"Better. IF I ever see ANYone antagonise, abuse or bully my brother again..." Mycroft towered over the now visibly shaken would be tormentor and indicated the newly purchased umbrella, as the old one had broken in his taking down of the elder brother. He still felt little remorse for his momentary loss of his well-known icy reserve, and it had been self-defence in advance...

"Yeah...okay...sure, whatever..."

"Whatever?"

"Whatever you say, sir."

"And I expect to see a letter of apology..."

"Awwwww....."

"Tomorrow." He looked down at the umbrella once more and the eight year old's shoulders slumped down.

"Yes, sir...."

"A full page."

"Sir."

"GO HOME!" Mycroft yelled, unable to stand looking at this obviously bullied kid any longer.

He went.

Mycroft let himself in the house and found Sherlock at the window.

"Thanks, Myc. I'm glad you didn't do anything to him, his brother is an arse and he's not a bad kid..."

"Someday, Sherlock, you will find that words are not enough."

"I know, Myc, but thanks anyway. Uhm, can I give you a hug?"

Mycroft tried to stifle a grin. "If you must."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft around the waist and squeezed. "You are the best, Myc."

Mycroft ruffled his brother's hair and cleared his throat. "Uhm, quite. Go do your work, I need to finish my reading."

"Uhm, yeah, okay."

"I..uhm...love you, 'Lock."

"Me too, Myc." Sherlock grinned over his shoulder at him.


	4. Protocol Thirty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legwork is tedious.

Mycroft took in the tableau before him. Six individuals in the center of the room. 

One, prone on the floor, the back of his head missing (Mycroft's eyes only briefly skimmed over that little detail). Tacky dark circles of blood spread out around the head and torso of the dead man. _Thirty-nine years old. Former military. Proficient marksman, judging by the grip he still maintained on his service weapon; though that skill had not served him this evening. Divorced. No children. Two dogs..._ And a myriad of other unprofitable observations were revealed.

The dead man was clearly not the missing dignitary, but one of his armed guards. _Moving on._

Standing next to the dead man's feet (he was missing one shoe), her stance was of one on the defense, was Sergeant... Daniels. Donahue... _Donovan._ Sally Donovan. Mycroft had a file on anyone and everyone connected with the MET, as they would most assuredly, all eventually come into contact with Sherlock. It had been two, no three, weeks since he'd reviewed them properly. The name slip was simply unacceptable.

At the guard's left shoulder stood a man in disposable coveralls, booties and gloves. He was red in the face, his unkempt beard looking anything other than professional (Mycroft's lip curled in disdain), and his expression was simultaneously flummoxed and furious. Mycroft was certain this was the forensics officer Sherlock railed against so often, begging Mycroft to make him disappear. This man was clearly second rate, Mycroft didn't concern himself with the fact that he had no desire to remember the officer's name, but Sherlock's ego could use a good foil on occasion. The forensics peon would stay. 

Directly across from Sergeant Donovan, tapping his foot impatiently, gesturing with his right hand as if holding an imaginary cigarette, stood Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The reason Mycroft was here in the first place. As a professional courtesy, Gre... Detective Inspector Lestrade had contacted Mycroft's office to report that the car responsible for transporting the Ambassador from Bahrain had been found idling outside of an abandoned house. His driver was shot dead in the street, one of his guards was found executed in the house, but the Ambassador and the second guard were nowhere to be found. There had been trouble brewing with Bahrain, and this most delicate of situations would require the utmost discretion. Mycroft trusted no one more than he trusted himself.

With their backs to him, Doctor Watson stood with his left shoulder directly against Sherlock's bicep. John, who normally kept a step behind Sherlock, mouth clamped shut, eyes flashing dangerously, though always at the ready, when Sherlock would engage in one of these verbal battles of will with the on-duty officers, had been somehow compelled to join the fray. Arms crossed, back rigid, he refused to back down. Standing as they were, pressed into each other, the duo gave off a rather impressive air of "immovable force."

And then there was Sherlock. Looking rather at ease and above it all. He gestured with his left hand, and ah... There. The cause for the contention. The guard's missing shoe.

How droll.

Three of New Scotland Yard's finest verbally sparring with an amateur and his blogger (the deceased guard was of course silent in the whole matter, despite the fact that it was his shoe in Sherlock's hand). Sherlock had the obvious advantage (John's contributions were astute, though often of a vulgar nature), but the Yarders refused to admit defeat. And so they carried on shouting over one another, the volume of the argument ever increasing.

Not one of them noticed Mycroft's approach. Not Gre... Detective Inspector Lestrade. Not Doctor Watson. Not even his own brother.

Mycroft tapped the metal tip of his umbrella on the floor. No response.

He cleared his throat. Nothing.

The officer standing post at the door reported that they'd been at it for nearly twenty minutes. Mycroft had been present for seven. 

Reprehensible. 

Without so much as a word, Mycroft reached discreetly under the back of John's coat, pulled out the Sig he knew would be there without fail, flicked off the safety and fired three rounds into the wall at his right.

Three of New Scotland Yard's finest, one amateur, and one blogger turned stunned, and slightly terrified, gazes to him (the guard remained unaffected). 

"If you are all quite finished, as this is a matter of national security, this scene is now no longer under your jurisdiction. You officers are dismissed, thank you for your time and service." A horde of very official looking agents flocked into the house with this proclamation. "Sherlock, as I am now in charge of this investigation, your services will no longer be needed. There is a car waiting to return you to Baker Street. And Doctor Watson," he dropped the gun, safety still off, into John's hand, "I'll trust you to take proper care of that. You really ought to guard it more closely. Someone could be injured."

Motioning to a group of agents, Mycroft smirked as the men escorted the dumbfounded officers from the room.

"Myc..." Sherlock began.

Mycroft tsk'd as an agent pried the shoe from his brother's hand. "You really should wear gloves when handling evidence, dear brother." He nodded once and another two agents manhandled John and Sherlock from the room and closed the door behind them.

"Sir, what should we do about the bullet holes?"

"Protocol thirty-seven. None of this ever happened. You know what to do." Tapping his umbrella once on the floor, Mycroft turned with a click of his heels and strode to the door. "Legwork. It's so very abundantly tedious."


	5. Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also part of the [Derisive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6633301/chapters/15177322) story I'm writing. This story takes place the day that Mycroft misses Greg's plane for Boston by two minutes. His response is rather unlike the responsible and staid character we all know and...love?

"I'm sorry, young man. That flight has already departed."

"When? When did it leave?" Mycroft was still trying to catch his breath, from running the length of the airport.

"Two minutes."

"Two minutes? Two fucking minutes?"

"Young man."

"Apologies, I'm sure." He turned away from the counter and found a seat. He threw his hastily packed duffel on the chair next to him, and buried his face in his hands. 

"Fuck it."

Mycroft stood up and walked out of the airport and kept walking. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. His best friend and lover was gone. Last night, he had given Mycroft a choice. 

"Come with me."

"To Boston?"

"Please, Myc? It'll be an adventure. We can-"

"What? What can we do, you'll be doing concerts and traveling. What, am I going to wait at home, and be what, do what, exactly?"

"You could write that book of poetry you're always going on about..."

Greg had left a ticket and money for a cab on the bed for him, with a note.

Please, I can't do this without you.  
I love you.

-G

And it was over. The only person who had ever looked at him in that way, that way that made him feel he was the only other person in the world. When he played a concert, he would catch his eye and hold him, telling him he loved him through the notes that he played. Only a year, but, what a year. 

Stop it. It's done. He could've waited, but he got on the plane without you. He's gone.

Before he knew it, he was sitting at a bar and ordering tequila. He never ordered tequila. He sat and looked at it for a moment before tossing it back. Ugh. He threw a note down, which was more than enough, and he walked out the door. 

What now?

Tattoo Parlor...stupid idea...stupid...stupid...stup-

"Yeah, kid, what can I do for ya?"

"Can you do a violin...with the initials GL worked in somehow...right here?" Mycroft lifted his t-shirt and pointed to a spot on his lower back, where no one would ever see it. But he would know. He would remember.

"Lemmee sketch something for you..."

A couple of hours later, a bit sore and broke, he left the tattoo parlor without a pound to his name, but with a violin etched on his back, and the determination to begin the rest of his life tomorrow.

"Hello? Yes, this is Mycroft Holmes, and I'd like to schedule a time to be measured for a suit. Yes, it will be on my father's account. Tomorrow? Perfect."

 

It wasn't until years later that someone else saw the tattoo, that night of Sherlock's 'death' when Mycroft lost the will to carry on alone anymore.

"Myc? What is this?" Greg whispered, his voice trembling. 

Greg had laid him down on his bed, stripped of everything; his suit, his ego, his need to be in control, and he had asked him to turn on to his stomach, then straddled his thighs and was running his strong, gentle fingers down his spine. Mycroft had long forgotten about it, the tattoo had been the last spontaneous act of his life until that night. 

"Oh, Gregory, I had it done the day you left. No one but you has ever seen it."

"It's beautiful..." He had leaned over and kissed it, and caressed it with his slightly calloused fingertips. "...just like you."

"Gregory, please..."

"Yes, Myc. Just promise me..."

"Anything, Gregory."

"Promise me, you won't ever let me go again?"

Mycroft sat up and looked into his eyes and nodded. "I promise."


	6. Missing Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have a thing for socks, it seems.
> 
> Mycroft is packing up to leave for Cambridge, Sherlock, age 11 has disappeared with one of each of his socks in hopes of delaying his brother's departure.
> 
> and a missing scene from HLV after the Baker Street scene...
> 
> and a bit of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" the book that Mycroft left on Sherlock's bed.

"SHER-LOCK!" Mycroft is not amused.

"What has he done now, Mikey?" His mum looks up from her equation.

Mycroft is standing in stockinged feet, one blue and grey striped, while the other is clearly black and grey.

"I don't have a single matching pair of socks in my drawer, and he knows I have to leave to catch the train in an hour."

"He's going to miss you."

"Hrmmmmppph. Sentiment. He's eleven. He has fri-"

His mother stares at him, takes her specs off, and sighs. "You know perfectly well that's not true, ever since that one disastrous playdate, back when he was four...you have been the only one who understands him, or at the very least doesn't try to beat him up."

"Mummmm-"

"Try the treehouse."

"I don't have time for this, reallllly, this is just too much."

"You have time, go."

Mycroft looked down at his socks and back at his mum, who had put her specs back on and was trying to get back to the equation that was giving her fits. "GO."

"All righhht." He stomped off to find his shoes and his little annoying git of a brother who was holding his socks hostage.

"Sher-LOCK! Where are you? I'm not mad, I just need my socks."

"NO."

"I'm coming up."

"I'm not giving them back," sniffed a muffled voice.

Mycroft finally made it up the rickety steps and sat on the sun-bleached chair that Sherlock had somehow managed to get up into his hideaway.

"I have to leave in less than an hour, with, or without my socks."

"Why? Why can't you stay?"

"Because I'm eighteen, and it's time. I'll be back at holidays."

"It won't be the same. You're gonna make friends and you won't want to play with me anymore."

"Come out from under there? Please?"

"Why?"

"So I can talk to you."

Sherlock threw off his blanket and looked at his brother with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't want you to go." He buried his face in his hands and turned away.

"I know. But it's what I have to do. Look at me, please? 'Lock?"

"Then take me with you?"

Mycroft shook his head. "You know I would if I could, but Mum and Dad would miss you."

Sherlock looked at him and sighed. "You know that's not true..."

"Yes, it is. Who else would wake them up with such precision from your nicely executed explosions?"

"Did you like that latest one?" Sherlock perked up a bit and a small smile almost made it to his eyes.

"It was very well done, and the colours were exquisite."

"Here, you know I wouldn't let you go away to Uni with mismatched socks. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."

"I wouldn't do that." Mycroft took the offered bag of socks and looked down at his shoes.

"Yeah, you would." Sherlock pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. "You hate sentiment, and all that stuff."

Mycroft nodded. "I - uhm...I left a book on your bed. You know...just in case, I couldn't find you before I left. I - you are the only friend I have, 'Lock. I'll miss you more than you can imagine."

 

Mycroft sat by Sherlock's hospital bed, holding his hand. "Do you remember, 'Lock? When you stole my socks so I couldn't leave-"

"Myc?" Sherlock whispered, a bit surprised at who was at his side.

" 'Lock?"

"Where - oh...John...is he?"

"Outside in the hallway, pacing, he's still trying to calm down."

"I do..."

"What?"

"...remember. I hid in the treehouse, waited for you to come find me."

"You were right, I loathe sentiment..."

"But, here you are."

"Yes. Here I am."

"Will you read to me some more? You were reading before you went all sentimental on me..."

"Yes. Yes, of course..."

" 'This must be Thursday,' said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.' ” 

Mycroft only let go of Sherlock's hand when he had to tun the page.


	7. A Study in Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson meets Sherlock's archenemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kinda feels like it could be a part of my [Reversal](http://archiveofourown.org/series/428896) series. Honestly, this just kinda happened.

Mycroft Holmes is nothing if he is not in control, and he has been in control of this situation since the moment the invalided military man who is also a physician  ( _Sherlock got it wrong when he called him an army doctor; Mycroft's seen the service records. But Captain Watson hadn't corrected him, and isn't_ that _just fascinating?_ ) walked into Saint Bartholomew’s pathology lab.

When the forgettable middle aged woman in the drab jumper and sensible loafers arrived at 221 Baker Street, representing _The Heritage of London Trust,_ and offering a substantial monthly stipend in exchange for continuing to maintain and _preserve_ the rooms (though the question of their vitality in understanding the recorded history of the city was never addressed), it was Mycroft exercising his control. Though the elderly landlady adores his brother, there is only so far she can discount the rent without the added support. 

And then there is Sherlock himself. It will only be a matter of time before _little brother_ will grow bored with his new acquisition. He'll forget about him, leave him, or cast him off. Mycroft never _could_ control Sherlock's irrational, erratic behavior, but he recognizes the patterns. When Sherlock left Doctor Watson alone at the crime scene, Mycroft was waiting.

A little manipulation -- the ringing phones and cameras always work, especially on those fighting daily battles with paranoia and distrust. He had so hoped the doctor would be different. He has yet to be disappointed. 

And now the man is standing, _standing,_ (ah, a strategist, then) mere paces away from Mycroft. He should be terrified, they're always terrified. But there is no terror. 

Irritation. This meeting is an inconvenience, though Mycroft is absolutely aware Doctor Watson has no social calendar to speak of. 

Distrust. Anyone who says they trust Mycroft Holmes completely is not to be trusted, by Mycroft's own admission. The doctor is demonstrating remarkable judgment in not trusting him at the moment.

Anger. Doctor Watson is not a man who often allows himself to be put into situations where he has no control at all. He feels he has lost his grip on this situation now that Mycroft has started revealing his secrets. What he doesn't seem to realize is that by not cowering and bowing to Mycroft's will, Doctor Watson has rather unassumingly, and quite disarmingly, stolen more than a little bit of the control of this meeting away from the most dangerous man he will ever meet.

Mycroft realizes the disparity as he examines Doctor Watson's left hand. He must not let his disquiet be seen. He turns his back to the doctor, takes a few steps, and assumes his most omniscient tone (the tone that has stopped in their tracks countless men in ranks more auspicious than Captain Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, could ever dream of achieving).

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He's recovered himself now, and ready to go in for the kill. "You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?"

"What’s wrong with my hand?" Doctor Watson eyes him warily, and ignores the condescending speech. Once again this common man with the stellar record and the slightly above average intellect up ends Mycroft's attack approach.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service."

There. A chink the armor. The former military man flinches as if he's standing in front of an actual firing squad. He recovers himself admirably, but not before Mycroft notices the way his eyes fix not on him, but some distant point. There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Mycroft smirks, he's won this round. 

He's not prepared for the return fire. He should be. It's one of three logical responses. It's not the one he expected though, and that makes the man before him dangerous. Intriguing.

"Who the hell are you? How do you know that?" The doctor rages. By this point, everyone Mycroft's ever run this protocol on has given up the fight. Mycroft Holmes does not retreat.

"Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." Mycroft feels a rush of adrenaline as Doctor Watson looks down clenching his fist, and then back up to stare back into the void.

Oh yes. He hasn't gotten what he originally wanted, an informant, no. But there is potential for so much more. Captain John H. Watson could prove to be very useful indeed. He is now an asset to be obtained. And Mycroft is never denied. It's time. The final nail. He won't refuse, Mycroft can see the fire in his eyes. There is palpable tension.

Mycroft, eyes piercing and frigid, demand attention. "You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." The implication clear. _Sherlock's little puzzles won't be enough for long. What battlefield do you want, they're all yours for the choosing._ He leans in close. It's almost intimate, if he weren't radiating intimidation. He lowers his voice. These words are for Doctor Watson only. An invitation. "Welcome back."

He turns and walks away. Biding his time, ensuring his steps reverberate. Any moment now. The doctor will comply.

Another text message. Mycroft knows it's Sherlock. He doesn't need to see the tech report. It's been months since any communications have passed through the device in Doctor Watson's pocket.

If Mycroft doesn't salvage the moment, his hard work will have been in vain. He pauses and twirls his umbrella. It all appears very casual, almost absurd.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft wills him to respond, to say a word. Take a single step. They both stand in silence a moment, with Mycroft's back turned to the doctor. 

A single step echoes. And then another. Mycroft opens his mouth to congratulate the doctor on making a wise choice. His future will be bright. It's not until the third step lands that Mycroft understands the doctor is retreating. 

Back to the car. Back to the trenches of Baker Street. Back to Sherlock.

Squaring his shoulders, Mycroft resumes his own retreat. He only pauses when the car is out of sight. Turning back he faces the empty chair sat in the middle of the abandoned structure. Undignified as it may be, Mycroft is outraged. He considers calling back the car and taking the doctor by force to Home Base. He'd grow to appreciate the place he could have there. 

But Mycroft won't do it. He likes to at least pretend he has given his marks a choice in the matter. Doctor Watson won't be able to hold out for long. Mycroft is confident in his own ability to persuade.

He realizes, though, that he's taken his mobile into his hand and is furious with himself for the momentary weakness. Slamming the mobile down to the concrete floor with all his might, Mycroft relishes the echoes of destruction. Is giddy with it as he holds his umbrella near the middle and uses the curved handle as a mallet. Soon the indestructible handle is cracked and ruined.

A single deep breath and Mycroft looks up. His security detail steps out from the shadows; they are very prudent in diverting their gazes. Dropping the umbrella on top of the smashed mobile, Mycroft smooths the front of his suit, presses his handkerchief to his brow and his neck, and strides to his waiting car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta credit [Ariane Devere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43298.html) and her meticulous transcripts for help with the dialogue.


	8. Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA: "How Mycroft Let his Heart Rule his Head"

Mycroft shook his head as Sherlock ended the call, finished his workout, showered, and dressed for a few hours at the office. He looked at the time and sighed. Perhaps mentioning Redbeard today of all days was a bit cruel and unusual, even for him.

"Do you know where the Watson reception is?"

Anthea rolled her eyes and gave their driver the address. Sentiment...how do they...she shrugged as she went back to listening to her 'How to Learn Enough Mandarin to Fake it in 4 Hours or Less' audio book.

I hope he at least got to dance...damn...there he is. Hmmm...solved a murder, no...solved an attempted murder and prevented one...did not dance, but told Dr. Watson...no, oh, Sherlock, you didn't. Yes, yes you did. In front of all of those people...and he didn't hear you.

 

"Not now, Myc."

"Sherlock, get in the car."

"Go, away, please.

"Brother, mine, it's a long way back to Baker Street."

 

Sherlock stopped, looked around, as if having to recall where he was and sighed, pulled his coat tightly around him and fell into the car. He leaned against the window and closed his eyes.

 

"You warned me."

"I didn't listen."

"And...Mary's pregnant...he's happy without me...didn't even notice I left."

"What? No smug, 'I told you so?' or 'Caring is not an adv-?"

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, for mentioning Redbeard earlier, that was uncalled for."

"Did you hear what I said? They are going to have a baby, Myc. They - he won't want me around, he won't pop over for Thai or want to dash around London anymore, he'll be out buying nappies and looking at schools...he will forget I ever existed."

"Why didn't you tell him about Mary?"

"What about Mary?"

"You knew she was a liar the moment you met her."

Sherlock shrugged. "So? He loves her, he wouldn't have believed me."

"She can read skip code, Sherlock...an orphan? Really, you bought that? She showed up at the clinic a year and half after you died...just in time for him to recover enough to be interested, right after he finally left Baker Street? Mary Morstan doesn't exist, there was a child who died at birth with that name...Mary Watson.isn't.real."

"How long have you - no, Myc, please, no. This will destroy him."

"You asked me to stay out of it, so I did, but I did a bit of research on my way here, research you could have done months ago instead of learning how to make serviettes and picking out purple-"

"Lilac," Sherlock mumbled.

"Lilac bridesmaid dresses. You let sentiment cloud your judgment - damnit, Sherlock...she's a fucking assassin. She was at the Pool. She was the one who was supposed to kill your precious Dr. Watson, but instead, she fell in love with him. If Moriarty hadn't killed himself in front of you, she would've been - oh, 'Lock..."

Sherlock had crumpled into himself and was quietly sobbing.

"'Lock, I'm so sor-"

Mycroft pulled him into his lap and stroked his curls. "I'm so, so sorry." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Anthea, get me 'Mary Watson' on the phone. Now."

 

" 'Mrs. Watson...' "

"Mycroft...I've been expecting your call."

"Walk away, tell him what you want, but walk away, this is your only chance. I'm not doing this for you or your 'husband-'

"Sentiment, Iceman? Your brother has always been your pressure point, hasn't he?"

"I know everything, including the fact that your child is not Dr. Watson's..."

"Damn...how - oh, well played, Mr. Holmes, well played. Tell Sherl' he did a lovely job with everything and John is safe, taking a shower. I've already written him a note, asking him for his forgiveness, but that I know, after some consideration, he'd be happier with someone else. You'll never find me, Mycroft, don't even try. I'm already gone."

"Myc'? What did you just do? "Mikey?" Sherlock sat up and looked at Mycroft with wild eyes. "You just let her go?"

"I've given you a chance to have what, or I should say 'whom' you want most, 'Lock. If you hadn't jumped, I'm sure he would have stayed, he never would have left Baker Street. It was my fault. I hope you make the most of your second chance, brother."

The black car stopped a block from the Watsons' residence, and Mycroft nodded to Sherlock as he slid out. 

"Go."

 

"John?"

"Sherlock? She's gone-she didn't-"

"I'm here, John."


	9. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the almost permanent departure/OD of his brother on the jet, an exhausted Mycroft lets his hair down, metaphorically speaking.

"Take care of him, will you?" 

John nodded at him, slightly puzzled, as he always seemed to be these days, then followed his wife to the car. Mycroft shook his head, as he took a sip from his flask. Marriage had softened the doctor, the edge that once made him interesting, perhaps even a bit dangerous, had disappeared beneath the 8, no, 9 extra pounds he had put on. Sympathy eating, for Mary, Mycroft surmised. But, maybe, after this latest debacle, disaster, fiasco, just maybe John could get his head out of his arse and realise how much Sherlock missed him, and...fuck it.

He walked off the plane and smiled grimly as Anthea pulled up, a well-oiled machine she was, he didn't have to say a word and...

"He will meet you at home, sir. I do think..."

Mycroft looked up in surprise and saw her eyes looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. "Since when..oh, carry on..."

"You should confide in him, sir, he's been cleared, you know that, he's not a security risk at all, and it could help..."

"Help?" he asked quietly. "Help what, or whom, exactly?"

"You, sir, you shouldn't have to carry all of this...if I may speak frankly..."

He closed his eyes and waved his hand.

"Bullshit, is what it is. Your brother, he has, well, kind of has Dr. Watson, and Mrs. Hudson...but you..."

"Me, Anthea?"

"DI Lestrade is, if I may be so bold...a nod...quite extraordinary...and he has made certain overtures, gestures if you will..."

"Quite so. I will take it under consideration. And, may I say, Anthea, you are not paid nearly enough."

"No, sir."

Mycroft grinned at her reflection, and then gigglesnorted. He clasped a hand to his mouth as she returned her eyes to the road, having missed nothing.

 

He closed the door and took a deep breath in. Garlic; the slight scent of Gregory's cologne mixed with the one cigarette he allowed himself, his shoes lined up neatly by the door, his briefcase and papers spread on the table. Mycroft slipped off his shoes and removed his jacket, throwing it over a chair, and he loosened his tie.

"Am I hard enough  
Am I rough enough  
Am I rich enough  
I'm not too blind to see

I'll never be your beast of burden  
So let's go home and draw the curtains  
Music on the radio  
Come on baby make sweet love to me"

They were so different, Gregory was working class, had pulled himself through the ranks; loved 'the Stones', a few hours at the local, Monty (shiver) Python. But as he watched him stir the sauce..and drink a beer...and hum along as he did that thing with his hips...

"Heard you had a rough day, thought a home cooked dinner and a night in?" He took another sip and continued to stir, as Mycroft closed his eyes and surrendered. He crossed slowly to the barefoot man in the age-worn concert t-shirt, apron and jeans, carefully placed his hands on his hips and leaned against him.

"Yes, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beast of Burden, The Rolling Stones:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8On3UiBOTdQ


	10. Click

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is _boooooreddddd._

Bored. _click_

Bored bored bored. _click click click_

Mycroft would never admit it out loud, but _being_ the British Government, while definitely affording its perks, tended to be incredibly _click_ , mind numbingly _click_ , soul crushingly _click_ , boring _click_.

Siiiiighhhhh. _click_

It wasn't even lunch time, and he'd already settled a maritime dispute between Canada _click_ and Greenland _click_. Polar ice caps. _click_ Bah. _click_

Talked Kim Jong-un down from the brink. _click_ Yes, he was a menace globally speaking, _click_ but he was mostly just misunderstood. _click_

And the abrupt relocation of a few key assets (just for the sake of it) _click_ provided a rather humorous diversion _click_ when it sent the CIA into a frenzied scramble. _click click_ That had been quite the enjoyable fifteen minutes. _click_

Mycroft switched the wireless mouse from his right hand to his left. _click clickclickclick_ What was the point of being ambidextrous if one never exercised the skill? _click_

Oh dear lord. _click_ So bored. _click_

He could almost, _almost_ empathize with Sherlock _click_ and the long stretches of ennui he suffered. _click_ Their's was an intellect that required constant stimulation. _click_ He considered the drugs that his brother had turned to for escape. _click_ Nearly killing himself so many times. _furiousclickclickclickclick_ Mycroft would never alter his mind in such a base manner. _click_

Though just downstairs in the lab, they were testing something new... _click_ No. _click_ Doubtless more safe than anything Sherlock had tried, _click_ the risk was too great. _click_ His mind was his greatest asset. _click_ Vital to the survival of the western world. _click_ Queen and country. _click_

Siiighhhhhhhhhh. _click_

"Sir?" A knock at his office door and Anthea stepped in.

"What now?" _click_ "I'm busy." _click click_

"Sir, the Ministry of Defense is on the line. They've expressed concern that a terrorist group may have hacked the Ministry of Transport mainframe."

Mycroft sat up a little straighter. _click_ "What evidence is there of an attack?" _click_

"For the past forty minutes someone has been remotely toying with traffic signals all over London. It's gridlock, sir. The Prime Minister's motorcade is stuck, and it's creating a security concern."

"I see." _click siiiighhhhhh_ "Inform them there has been no attack, and that I will personally see that the situation is rectified." Mycroft let his index finger hover over the mouse. Just _click_ once _click_ more _click_.

"I will pass the message, sir." Lingering just a moment longer, Anthea looked up from her mobile. "Bored, sir?"

"You have no idea."

"You have that call with Putin scheduled in an hour. I can see if we can move it up. You always like winding him up."

"Ah, Vlad. He is so temperamental. That will do nicely. Thank you."

Anthea turned and left without another word. Slumping back into his chair, though mindful of his suit, Mycroft turned his attention back to the CCTV feeds on his monitor. He smirked as he watched the harried constables attempting to direct the tangled knot of cars and lorries through the intersections and roundabouts. He couldn't help but think trained monkeys would have more success.

"Oh, look. They've almost got themselves sorted." He leaned forward a bit and enlarged one of the feeds. Maybe just... No, he shouldn't. It really was a waste of resources. Still, the Prime Minister didn't actually have anywhere _important_ he needed to be... Perhaps just... once... more...

 

_click_


	11. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's second birthday while 'away'; Mycroft has 'lost' him in Eastern Europe. Basically this has turned into a return fic. Oy! An attempt at angst, since my partner in crime went cracky this morning. ;)

Mycroft's alarm went off, and he looked at his phone. January 6...January sixth. Damn it.

 

Any word? - MH

No sir, sorry sir, status still unknown

Keep looking, he is out there somewhere - MH

Yes, sir, sorry, sir

Just find him - MH

 

He rubbed his face and threw off his covers, showered, dressed, and made himself choke down a piece of toast and half a cup of tea.

 

"Sir?"

"Cemetery."

"Sir."

 

He had only visited once before, a year ago. He had waited until he saw John walk away, the limp back in full force; he had bowed his head, brushed the snow away, and felt the cold marble under his fingers. It wasn't just for show, though that was part of it. They had become close in the last weeks before the "Fall" as the press had dubbed it, planning for every contingency, or at least they thought they had. Neither of them had guessed that Moriarty would have given up the game so easily. Bad intel, or maybe he was just as crazy as he had seemed. Sherlock was able to send him texts occasionally, mostly to ask how John was coping, but once in a while they were able to chat about where he was, in code of course; Mycroft had spent years abroad and he almost wished he was with his brother, but for the leg work. But weeks ago, the texts stopped. Nothing. He had simply vanished.

 

There should be something he could say, something that could be done. With all of his resources, his power, he had failed. Failed his brother, so completely. He shook his head and gripped his umbrella tighter as the skies opened up.

"How appropriate," he grumbled. He turned to go and felt a shaky hand on his shoulder.

"Myc."

He took a deep breath and slowly turned towards the voice. How...it wasn't poss- he dropped his umbrella, not caring how wet he got. In front of him, was a bedraggled figure, in little more than rags, but it was his brother, somehow, standing in front of him. Barely standing.

"I'm home." Sherlock crumpled against him. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him so he wouldn't fall, kissed the top of the hoodie, not caring who saw, and lifted him carefully into his arms.

"Baker Street, please, Myc?" Sherlock whimpered before he passed out.

"Of course, brother mine."

He carried him to the black car, laying him gently on the back seat and tapping the window, he whispered, "Baker Street." He lifted Sherlock into his lap and removed the hood from his face.

"Oh, 'Lock. I'm so, so sorry." For the first time since he had been a child, he felt tears stream down his face. "I'm so sorry." He kissed his forehead then leaned back into the seat, frantically thinking how he was going to explain this resurrection to Mrs. Hudson and to John.

"Baker Street, sir."

"Yes."

"Can I assist you, sir-"

"No, and you don't know anyt-"

"Of course not, sir."

"I'll call you when I'm ready to be picked up."

"Sir."

 

He gently gathered Sherlock into his arms and walked to the door. He took a deep breath and rang the bell.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson peeked out at him, then put her hand to her mouth. "But, he's -"

"No - he's not. Is Dr. Watson in? I will need his assistance."

"Yes, he's upstairs - oh, dear..."

"Don't let anyone else in, please."

Mrs. Hudson moved to let him in and nodded. He adjusted his arms and heard a slight groan from his brother. "Almost, Sherlock, just have to get up the stairs, and you'll be home." He felt him relax against him, and he slowly walked up the seventeen steps.

 

"Mycrof-?" John's jaw dropped as he opened the door, obviously just out of the shower.

"I'll explain as much as I can later, but I, we, need your help. I don't know what injuries he has sustained, but I suspect he's been tortured. I can't take him to an A & E..."

"Why? Because he's supposed to be -"

"Quite."

"My bedroom, I just changed the sheets this morning, let me get my kit. You will have to help me. I can't do this on my own."

"I have no intention of leaving, Dr. Watson."

"What the hell, Mycroft?" John's voice shook, trying to keep his voice low, as he carefully removed Sherlock's clothes, bit by bit.

"He had no choice. He confronted Moriarty right before you turned up, and he had no alternative, there were snipers..."

"Two years, Mycroft! Two years, and you couldn't tell me..."

"He didn't know if you were safe until recently. I swore I'd keep you safe..."

"Oh, God -" They both looked down and saw the results of two years away. "Mycroft." 

"Tell me what you need, Dr. Watson."

"I need a bowl of warm water, and you'll need to hold his hand, it will hurt, even if I numb everything."

Mycroft nodded and went into the kitchen. He bent down over the sink and wept silently as the water warmed up. He straightened up, took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom.

"Thank you for bringing him here, Mycroft, I know you didn't have to-"

"He asked me to bring him here, it was the least I could do. It's his birthday after all."

John shook his head. "I'd almost forgotten until my alarm went off this morning. He had set my phone to remind me when it was his birthday. I couldn't bear to take the notification off after last year. He was always breaking my password -"

"...not exactly Fort Knox, John."

John looked up and found Sherlock looking at him.

"Happy birthday, you idiot, let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Sherlock reached up and took Mycroft's hand in his. "Thank you -" then he passed out again.

"It's better this way, just hold his hand."

Mycroft slipped off his shoes and laid down next to Sherlock, closed his eyes and began speaking:

"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains  
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,  
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains  
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:  
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,  
But being too happy in thine happiness,—  
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees  
In some melodious plot  
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,  
Singest of summer in full-throated ease..."

"Ode to a Nightingale? Didn't know you would keep such sentimental 'claptrap'..."

"I don't delete as mindlessly as my brother tends to do. It was the first poem he had to memorise for school. Over and over...thought I'd dream those words for the rest of my life."

"Okay, we need to move him on to his side so I can see his back...damnit...Myc-"

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his fingers tightened on Mycroft's hand.

"Shhh...you're home, you're safe." Mycroft ruffled his hair gently. "We are cleaning you up. You are safe. I promise." Sherlock blinked and nodded then closed his eyes again, but his fingers held on tightly.

"O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been  
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,  
Tasting of Flora and the country green,  
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!  
O for a beaker full of the warm South,  
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,  
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,  
And purple-stained mouth;  
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,  
And with thee fade away into the forest dim..."

 

Hours later, Mycroft looked away from his phone to see his brother staring at him. "Are you real?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I'm at home, at Baker Street? In John's room. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Where is John? Is he angry?"

"He went to get take-away, needed to get some air, after he fixed you up. He will be back soon with dinner. Just some soup for you, and those prawn things, since it is your birthday."

"Still?"

"For a few more hours."

"Thank you for remembering, wasn't sure if anyone would." He fell asleep again, his fingers still clasped in Mycroft's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benedict Cumberbatch's reading of Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale'  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pkQYLVqBms


	12. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The same brothers from Brother, Mine and Missing Socks, the day Sherlock comes home from hospital. Mycroft has a bit of a tantrum.

Mycroft looked at his brother in his mother's arms. 

"Hmmpphh."

"What dear?"

"Not much to look at, is he?"

"He's only two days old, Myc, what do you expect?"

"What did you name him, then?"

"William Sherlock Scott"

"Will-IAM? WILL-iam? You name me effing Mycroft, and he gets to be called WiLL-iam?"

"Mycroft Holmes! Go up to your room this instant!"

Mycroft, being only seven, did not have the backing of the British Navy as yet, so he stuck his bottom lip out and walked upstairs to his room. He didn't understand why they wanted another one. Maybe because someday he'd go away to school and they'd be lonely...oh no.

"MUM???!" Mycroft shrieked down the stairs, eyes wide, bottom lip now trembling.

"I thought I told you- Myc, what is it?"

"You, uhm, aren't sending me away to school are you?" He sniffled.

"No, not unless you want to - why do you ask, dear? Mummy Holmes knew a thing or two about her eldest, and she knew quite well what was flashing through his brilliant, though still sentimental brain.

"I, uhm, don't understand why you got another one, I thought I was 'more than enough'?"

Oh...dear. Must turn off that extension upstairs.

"I meant, dear, that you are enough for me, you don't need to be brilliant or a superhero, just be yourself - we thought you would enjoy having a younger sibling to play with and to teach, it just took longer than we thought."

"Oh. So you aren't sending me away?"

"No, just back up to your room until it's time for tea."

"Awww, but mummmmm..."

"Go, we have a nice Victorian Sponge, now scoot!"

"Yeth...yes, mum."

Mummy Holmes (Victoria, though she allowed her husband to call her Vi on ocassion) sighed and looked down at William, who was looking up at her, with a deeply puzzled look on his very young face.

"No worries, love, Myc will be a lovely big brother, you'll see." She gently pulled a raven curl and watched it bounce back.

William snorted and she swore that he had rolled his eyes.

"Oh lord, not another one," she sighed.


	13. Will You do the Fandango? (aka Scaramouch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by seeing the word 'scaramouch' as a word of the day, which appears in the lyrics of 'Bohemia Rhapsody' by Queen.
> 
> What happens when Mycroft has a bad day and is caught in the rain, brolly-less, a few sheets to the wind, singing 'Bohemian Rhapsody'...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scaramouch: noun: skar-ə-ˌmüsh, -ˌmüch, -ˌmau̇ch:  
> a cowardly buffoon
> 
> French Scaramouche, from Italian Scaramuccia, from scaramuccia skirmish
> 
> First Known Use: 1662

"I see a little silhouetto of a man  
Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango  
Thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me  
Gallileo, Gallileo..."

 

"Mycroft?" Lestrade yelled from his car."What are ya doin'?"

"I would've thought it was perfecktly obviouthh what I am 'doin',' as you so quaintly put it, walking and thingi- damn it. Sing-ing in the rain."

"You seem to have forgotten something."

"I never forget anything, Gra- Gregory."

"Your brolly, Myc?"

"Oopth." Mycroft looked up at the sky, then down at his ruined bespoke suit and sloshy shoes.

"Get in the car, Myc, I'll take you to my place, you can get a shower and some dry clothes, not quite the style yer accustomed to, but better than taking you to the lock-up; can't have the 'British Government' catching pneumonia, not to mention the press...sit on the towel, actually, you may want to lie down in case the paparazzi are still about."

Mycroft got in the back seat and stretched out on the towel. "Very kind, I'm thhure...

"Is this the real life?  
Is this just fantasy?  
Caught in a landslide  
No escape from reality  
Open your eyes  
Look up to the skies and see..."

"Queen, eh, never took you for a Freddie Mercury man, myself. Thought you would be more of an opera buff."

"Hmmm...no, the opera is fine, but, ah, Wembley Stadium..."

"1986...yeah. I was -"

" - there..."

"Detective Inthpector, could you pull over for just a moment?"

"Bucket on the floor. "

"Brilliant."

"Better?"

"Much. How did you, erm...know -"

"-where to find you?"

"Sherlock. Anthea had called him, somehow she had lost you, and he put the word out to his Homeless Network, one of his regulars - "

"Ir-rrregulars, more like -"

" - spotted you and got in touch with your brother, who called me."

"He never calls when he can text."

"He seemed quite concerned, actually, he knew from Anthea that you'd had a bad day, and he said the last bad day you had was when the Berlin Wall fell."

"He's overstating it, it's just that was the last day when it wasn't so hard to know who your enemies were."

"So, what happened today? Or am I allowed to know?"

"Agent died. Shouldn't have, my fault. Had a family, wife, kids...sentiment...always tell them, best not to get attached...it happened in Serbia...reminded me of when Sherlock, when I had to retrieve hi-"

"We're home. Er, my home, anyway. I know it's not up to your posh standards, but the water is hot, I have some leftover Shepherd's Pie from supper I can heat up if you feel up to it later."

Lestrade got out of the car, and opened the door for Mycroft, who slowly pushed himself upright, then with as much dignity as he could muster, launched himself out of the back seat. Lestrade subtly placed his hand on Mycroft's back as he saw the government official begin to weave a bit.

"...Didn't mean to make you cry  
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow  
Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters..."

"Inside with ya - loo is down the hall to your left. I'll put some clothes by the door. Shoes can go right by the - wait. Give me half a tic."

Lestrade pulled a chair from the kitchen and maneuvered Mycroft into it, then knelt in front of him and removed his shoes and socks.

"Lost cause, I'm afraid. Jus' sit here til you...no. Myc...damn it, I hope you will forget this tomorrow."

Mycroft had fallen asleep in the chair, completely, utterly asleep. 

"Used to do this for your brother...when he would....never mind. Just glad he has John now to keep him out of that neighborhood. Why that neighborhood, Myc?" Lestrade managed to get Mycroft undressed with as little fuss as possible, then carried him over his shoulder and put him to bed.

 

Can you have Anthea send over dry clothes and shoes? - GL

That bad? Damn it, should John and I come get him? - SH

Nah, you will be the last person he wants to see tomorrow, gonna let him sleep it off here. - GL

Thank you, Greg. It could have gotten out of hand, he doesn't do this very often...only when he loses an agent, he takes the blame for every one of them, but he usually goes to his club. - SH

Agent died in Serbia - GL

Oh. Ohhh. Yeah, he's better off at your place. Will let Anthea know. Night. - SH

Night. - GL

 

The following afternoon, Mycroft blinked at the sunlight, not his bedroom, not the club. No clothes. WTF?

He sat up and tried to regain a sense of, well, anything. He took a deep breath, and he instantly regretted it. Oh. Right. You went slumming last night. Singing. Rain. Lestr- Gregory. Gregory's house. His bedroom. Damn. Not the way he had wished to see it for the first time.

He looked down and saw a hastily scrawled note:

"Had to go in, triple murder, your brother's in heaven. Food in the kitchen. Stay as long as you need. Fresh set of your clothes and shoes in bag in front of the dresser. I'd like to take you out or have take away tonight, I have a bootlegged copy of the concert, if you want to watch it with me. It's okay if you don't, just, anyway. Whatever."

 

Apologies - MH

No need - GL

I'd like to take you up on your offer what time do you get off from work - MH

Normal time, six-ish - GL

Thai? - MH

Perfect - GL

 

Lestrade grinned as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. 

"A date? With Myc? Seriously?"

"Shut up." Lestrade said without any trace of rancour.

"Now, gimme what you got, so I can get out of here, yeah?"

"He's never had a goldfish before, just be careful, all right?"

"Goldfish?"

"Boyfriend, mate, friend of any kind, just let him down gently."

"Who says...?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in 'that' way; then shut his mouth and rattled off the solution to the case.

"Now, go home...Queen and Thai?"

"How...never mind-"

"You've been humming Bohemian Rhapsody all afternoon, and my brother adores Thai...he likes cake, and fuzzy socks, he takes his tea with a spot of milk and no sugar, Strawberry jam on his toast."

"Right. Night. Thanks."

Sherlock watched him leave and shook his head. "John, let's go home, I've been up way too long, because I could've sworn I just gave George my blessing."

"For?"

"To date Mycroft."

"Yeah. Bed for you, maybe it's that fungus you're growing, is it hallucinogenic?"


	14. Epilogue to Will You do the Fandango? (aka Scaramouch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First date...

Lestrade stopped at his favourite bakery on the way home, and purchased a small red velvet cake, just in case. Bread for toast...he had strawberry jam at home already...he shouldn't presume, but...it had been years since he had been interested in anyone, and he always had an idea that Mycroft may have something close to sentiment towards himself. What the hell, what could it hurt?

 

Mycroft paced. He had taken the paracetamol that Gregory had left on the nightstand, showered, and sent Anthea a message indicating he was taking the next two days off.

Off? - A

Off, as in, do not call me, text me or bang on DI Lestrade's door for any reason. - M

Yes sir. I did send over your running clothes and shoes if the need arises. - A

Excellent. Have a night off yourself. - M

And do what, sir? - A

Go have dinner, or go see a movie - M

Sir. Is that an order, sir? - A

Yes. - M

 

Anthea sighed as she saw Mycroft's last message. Sentiment...just because he's going to finally get laid, he thinks everyone has someone to 'dinner' or 'movie' with.  
I guess I could alphabetise my record collection again.

 

Lestrade opened his front door, and took a deep breath, lemon grass, curry.... Mycroft was in his kitchen, cooking. Cooking Thai. In his kitchen in an old marathon t-shirt, baggy running shorts, and barefoot, cooking him dinner. He had to sit down before he fell over in shock.

"Ah, Gregory."

"When you said Thai...I thought you meant, uhm."

"I don't normally have time or someone to cook for, but, I thought it might be a suitable apology for any inconvenience I may have cau-"

Lestrade had walked up behind Mycroft as he was washing his hands, and gently kissed the back of his neck.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to do that," he whispered against Mycroft's ear.

"You don't know how long I've wanted you to do that." answered Mycroft, his breath stuttering.

"How long will dinner be?"

"I've turned everything off, the rice is cooking..."

"How long...?"

"An hour, though Thai saves well...in fact-"

Lestrade's fingers were running along his sides, "uh-huhhh?"

"Thai keeps very well overnight..."

"Does it?"

"Mmmm...hmmmm...oh."

"There? You're not ticklish are you, Myc?"

"Uhm, I don't know."

"You don't know if you're ticklish?"

"Uh-uh."

"I guess we'll find out together."

 

I'm taking a sick day, Donovan - GL

Sir. - SD

You're not going to ask. - GL

No. Sir. - SD

 

"No, Sherlock, he's not coming in today. No new cases for you. Take a day off, will you?"

Donovan put her feet up on Lestrade's desk and took a nap.

 

"Well, no new wars last night, nothing of any note today..." Sherlock muttered as he read the newest articles online. "Myc must've -"

"Don't, love. Just don't. I like Greg just fine, just can't picture your brother...and I don't want to. Try not to worry. Greg's a good guy.

"I know. I just, he's never -"

"I know, he's a grown up, remember?"

"I have the day off...you don't have a shift today..."

"Got any ideas about how we can waste some time?"

"Just a few..."

 

"Mornin' "

"Morning, yourself. Tea?"

"Mmmm..."

"Last night was - "

"Remarkable?"

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Lestrade and nuzzled his neck.

"Um-hmmm"

"Work today?"

"Nope. You?"

"Took today off, first day in, let's see, 20 years."

"For...me?"

"For me and the possibility of an 'us.' Yes."

"A run later, maybe?"

"Later. Much later."


	15. Sibling Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit between the helicopter and '...you know what happened to the other one...'

He stepped from the helicopter, nodded to Anthea and slid into the backseat of the black sedan. He pulled out his phone and punched in a number he'd hoped never to use.

"Ah...Myc."

"Sebastian."

"What did he do this time?"

"Something - I can't save him from -"

"He did Magnussen. Yes?.........Your silence is an affirmation. You should give him his bloody knighthood, not send him to purgatory."

"You know I can't do that." 

"You know it will kill him to leave his blogger."

"I give him six months."

"He won't last that long. I'd be surprised if he survives the solitary confinement you have put him in. He's already crawling the walls...remember...the worst punishment Mum could give him was to make him sit still and quiet for ten minutes..."

"Don't, Seb."

"Send him to me."

"He doesn't remember you."

"Better that way. Don't you think?"

"He will know...he'll figure it out."

"He's not the same - hasn't been the same since he met his Doctor. You know that. He's lost his edge, lost his gift. I can give it back to him."

"What, make him a more brilliant you? Don't make me laugh. He's better off -"

"knowing he's on a suicide mission? Knowing he won't ever make it home? Just for doing what you should have and could have done long ago? He just had a better motive....to save the love of his life."

"And what would you know about that, Sebastian?"

"I'm willing to save Sherlock from you, even though he helped kill my...never mind. Sherlock and I are very much alike. You somehow missed out on the gene for obsessive love. It's too bad, really. You know...no..."

"What?"

"No, you'd never do it...it would go against your...I suppose you would call them 'standards of ethical behaviour' or some other poshy rot..."

"Sebast-"

"What would you do, Mycie, hmmm? What would you do to save little 'Lock from a sure death, or an existence possibly worse? What would you do to stop him from becoming me?"

"Anything, Seb. You of all people should know that."

"Quite so. Very well. Just let me know when he is about to take off and I'll send you a little present."

"Sebastian -"

"Don't worry, brother mine, nothing too terrible, just a bit of fun..."

 

...A week later...

"Miss me?"

 

Don't tell him it was a gift from me - SM

I don't know how much of a gift it will be all things considered. - MH

Not my problem, he needs to grow up and take what he wants. - SM

He's not like you. - MH

No. He is his own master, unlike either of us. I hope he finally understands that. - SM

I won't call again. - MH

I certainly hope not, for his sake. - SM

Goodbye, Seb. - MH

Myc. - SM


	16. The Big Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's big day...does Big Brother show up for the feast?

Please come, it will mean a lot to him - JW

Incompatible with my schedule. He will understand. - MH

Of course he will. And he would never expect you to interrupt your life to attend a brief ceremony, located in a building that is a mere two minute walk from your office. I would hazard a guess that he may have planned it that way on purpose? But he will understand. - JW

And yet - you are texting me instead of seeing your next patient. - MH

Quite so. And I'm not going to bother asking how you know that. - JW

 

Sherlock looked at his watch again then checked to see if he could catch a glimpse of the back of Mycroft's head. Perhaps he objected to a church service? They had done it for John's mum...maybe he just objected to the idea that...fuck it. Fuck him. Then he straightened John's tie for the umpteenth time.

"Stop fidgeting, it will be all over soon, then you can take the bloody thing off. Sorry. I know how much you hate it, I know you are just doing it for me - thank you, love."

"I'm sorry - you know how it is - with the Canadian elections and all - I'm sure there's a good reason for him not -"

"It's not really his kind of thing, he created some international incident in Indonesia just so he wouldn't have to attend William and Kate's wedding, what chance was there he'd show up to ours? Doesn't matter in the least. All that matters is that you know how much -"

"Ssshhhh - don't spoil your vows by telling me now, love. There, there's our music. I love you." John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and smiled against his knuckles before kissing them. "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath, then somehow managed to get his legs working well enough to propel the rest of him down the aisle. He didn't think he could have done it on his own, without John by his side holding tightly to his hand. He almost felt like he was on his way to the Headmaster's office for some egregious offense...he really didn't truly see or hear anything until the minister or what was she called, a 'celebrant?' asked him to tell John what was in his heart.

"Hmmm...John. I am here standing before you, because I know of no other way to let you know how completely I love you. Until I met you, I had no idea I was even capable of such sentiment -"

 

Mycroft tried to tell himself it didn't matter if he attended Sherlock's wedding. He had pressing matters elsewhere in the world, fires to put out in the normal places...Liar. You are a liar. Damn, he hated when that little voice would nudge him into remembering his human parts. You know how much it would mean to your little brother to know you were there. He deserves better than your indifference...it isn't indifference dammit...uhuh. Mycroft knew he was in trouble when he started arguing with the little voice. He looked at his watch, they would begin in ten minutes. Enough time to grab a flower from that girl who sells roses on the corner...he stood, yelled to Anthea that he was going out, checked his sartorial splendour for any crinkles in his full length glass, finding none, he grabbed his umbrella and headed out the door. He nodded to the girl who was shocked when he pointed to the white rose, even more so when he left her a couple of ten pound notes, then walked off whistling to himself and twirling his umbrella. Traffic was horrible, so it took him a bit more time than he thought, and he arrived just in time to watch his brother begin his vows. He looked terrified, Mycroft thought, but what do I know? Suddenly, he needed to clear his throat. Damn. Hell -

"..Until I met you, I had no idea I was even capable of such sentiment -"

"Ahem."

Sherlock turned his head only enough so Mycroft knew his brother had made a note of his presence, but he visibly relaxed, seemed less terrified and even went so far as to offer John a nod and the tiniest of smiles.

"I had believed I was unlovable and incapable of returning such feelings until I met you. You found something in me, something real that no one else had ever discovered, or had even bothered to search for. In return, I realised in you, a partner both in work and in love and I stand here today because I promised you I would, but more than that, I stand before you today because I know of no other way created by man to demonstrate how much I adore and cherish you, John Hamish Watson. I promise to love only you until the day we are parted by death and even after I know my heart will find yours wherever or whatever follows this lifetime."

Mycroft had managed to find a seat in the back row before his knees gave out. He watched his brother's face nearly crumble as John offered him his heart, his hopes and his faith on a silver platter, but even in this ceremony, one Mycroft saw as old-fashioned and trite, John's offerings came without strings, he gave of himself without asking for a guarantee. Rings were exchanged, a brief kiss shared, and Mycroft bolted. He ran all the way back to his office and slammed the door behind him, then walked calmly to his desk, pulled out his emergency flask, usually reserved for those rare times when Sherlock entered his domain. He poured himself a double and tossed it back, then poured another and sipped it casually, as he texted Anthea.

 

Surely there is some place in the world where I am needed at this very moment?- MH

Your brother's wedding reception?- A

Don't get cheeky, Anthea. - MH

Putin is a bit moody these days. - A

When is he not? I loathe Moscow in June. - MH

How about America? Perhaps some fly fishing in Maine, Sir? - A

Sounds perfect. - MH

Flight first thing tomorrow. Plenty of time...there is cake...or so I've been told.- A

How is it? - MH

Perfect- I think Mrs. Hudson - damn. Just come over to the flat, Sir. - A

I'll be there shortly. - MH

Wedding present bottom right hand drawer. - A

Thank you, Anthea. - MH

Just doing my job. Sir. - A

 

"Sir - you just missed them. They caught a taxi for the train station, Lestrade got a call about a case in Scotland, and since they were going on a walking holiday for their honeymoon - but there is plenty of cake left."

Mycroft sat down in John's chair with a glass of champagne and a plate of Mrs. Hudson's marble pound cake when his phone pinged.

 

Thank you. - SH

It was my pleasure, brother mine. - MH

Don't eat too much cake - SH

Come home safely. - MH

Always try to. - SH

 

Sherlock laid his head back down in John's lap and sighed as John fingers once again found hold in his curls, as the train made its slow ramble up north.

And Mycroft managed to get Mrs. Hudson's recipe for her marble pound cake after her fourth glass of champagne.


	17. A Plot Twist...or Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by a suggestion from Tanista...
> 
> These are the same Mycroft/Lestrade from the Scaramouch chapters, a few months later, no worries, I never kill any of the lovelies off.
> 
> (the title comes from one of my favourite memes: "When something goes wrong, just yell, 'Plot Twist!' and move on.")

He had forgotten. No. He had become complacent, that's what it was, because Mycroft never forgot anything. 

It had been four months since Lestrade had finally moved in. He had moved his clothes over slowly, then his collection of CDs and vinyl, then the boxes arrived in dribbles. But he still held on to that dump of a flat, as if he were expecting Mycroft to change his mind about him. Finally, one night he came home with a curry take away and an envelope.

"Found some poor sod to buy my old place. It sold in less than a week."

"You mean?"

"I want to be with you, Myc, I figured by now you might have put that together. I just wanted, needed to be sure you wanted me as much, I'm arse at this kind of thing. I was married for years to someone I didn't really love because it was easier, until it became ridiculously clear that neither of us wanted to be there. I've been on my own so long that I didn't want to rush things if you had second thoughts -"

After four months, he had left home without a kiss, or an 'I love you, see you tonight' because he always came home, even if he had to work well into the next morning, he always came home, even if it was just to change his clothing, and have coffee with him. He always came home, until he didn't.

 

"Mycroft?" Sherlock sounded scared.

"Sherlock? Why are you phoning, you never - Gregory. Something's happened - where?"

"He's on his way to hospital, I'm sorry, Myc, John did all he could -"

Mycroft ended the call and Anthea entered his office. "Sir? I'll order the car -"

"No."

"Sir. It's late - let me -"

"I didn't tell him, Anthea. I left the house in my usual preoccupied state and didn't tell him, didn't kiss him. He doesn't know -"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Mycroft's head snapped up and he glared at her.

"Sir. Of course he knows. Now, pack up your laptop, your charger and your phone. Then get into the bloody car. Sir."

 

He arrived at Bart's ten minutes later to find John slumped in one of the waiting room chairs while his brother was pacing the hallway, muttering to himself. His coat and jacket were off and there was blood on his otherwise pristine shirt, too much blood. Sherlock stopped his manic pacing as he spotted his brother. He stopped and looked down at his feet as if ashamed.

Mycroft dropped his briefcase on a chair, then walked slowly towards Sherlock. As he got closer, he saw the blood on his hands and his face and the tears that were threatening to fall. 

"We did everything we could, Myc." Sherlock whispered to his toes.

"Shhhh." Mycroft took his brother into his arms, knowing his suit would be a complete loss, but he didn't care. "I'm here now. You and John can go home."

Sherlock pulled away. "I'm not going home til I know that he's okay."

Mycroft turned to John. The former surgeon sat staring at his hands, but seeing something else. Usually the voice of reason, John shook his head and muttered mostly to himself. "We're stayin'. I've never left anyone behind and I'm not gonna start now. When we know he's in recovery, we'll go home and change, but not til then."

Mycroft sighed, but nodded his agreement and somehow managed to get Sherlock to sit down. He wondered briefly about his coat as his brother was shivering in the arctic hallway. He slipped his jacket off and draped it around Sherlock's slight shoulders. They sat in silence for a few moments that seemed like an eternity, until Sherlock found his voice again.

"It was my fault."

"Don't be idiotic, love." John sighed.

"I should've made sure he didn't have another gun."

"None of us expected it, he was almost cuffed but he twisted away and pulled out a pistol from his ankle. I didn't think they did that anymore. Stop blaming yourself."

"Did he say anything? Gregory?" Mycroft's voice sounded very odd to his own ears, he sounded small, diminished.

Sherlock looked over at John and John nodded. "He, uhm, wanted me to be sure to tell you that he was sorry."

"Sorry?"

"He said he forgot to kiss you this morning, and he didn't mean to, he said he'd make it up to you."

Mycroft closed his eyes and snorted. Then the tears rolled uncontrollably down his cheeks. Sherlock jumped up as if stung and mumbled, "I'm going to get coffee." 

"I forgot too, John. I had grown accustomed to his presence, his thereness, if that makes sense?" John blinked at him but nodded. "I got lazy, but I always made sure to tell him until this morning."

"It's not your fault, Mycroft."

"Is he dead?"

"Who?"

"The man who shot Gregory."

"Yes."

"Who -"

"Donovan."

"Remind me to send her roses."

"She hates roses."

"Of course she does."

"Cadbury."

"That can be arranged." 

Sherlock returned with three coffees, and an apologetic grimace, then they fell into a silence that remained intact until the surgeon stood before them.

"Are you DI Lestrade's family?"

Mycroft nodded, and somehow got to his feet.

"I'm his partner, yes."

"He's in pretty bad shape, but should make a full recovery given time. You may sit with him if you wish."

Mycroft nodded again, then turned to John and Sherlock. "Please go home, I'll call you if anything changes?" As Sherlock was about to resist, he added. "At least get cleaned up, get some sleep - thank you, both of you, for -"

John stretched and stood, then reached for Sherlock's hand. "Let's go, love, we both need showers at the very least, and they need privacy."

"Right. Very well. Call us, if you need anything." They walked hand in hand towards the exit, Mycroft sighed as he watched Sherlock lean heavily against John, and John's arm pulled him in a bit tighter.

"Sir?"

"Yes. Lead the way."

 

"He was shot in the shoulder, luckily from what I understand there was a former Army doc on the scene, knew what to do, otherwise..." Mycroft stopped listening when they got to Lestrade's room and the doctor pushed the door open, babbling away about bones and steel plates and muscles, recovery time...all Mycroft could hear was the beeping and whirring...all he saw was Gregory, and too much white. He hated white. He loathed white. He pulled out his phone and sent Anthea a message.

 

Bring the quilt from our bed, please. - MH

Will do, anything else? - A

Real coffee, better yet my coffee maker and coffee and the novel he was reading. - MH

Sir. - A

 

An hour later a bright crazy quilt made the room less sterile, a pot of coffee was brewing and Mycroft was reading aloud to Gregory from the book he had started reading over a year ago but had only made it a quarter of the way through.

 

"“There is plenty of misery in the world, all right, but there is ample pleasure, as well. If a person forswears pleasure in order to avoid misery, what has he gained?...how can you admire a human who consciously embraces the bland, the mediocre, and the safe rather than risk the suffering that disappointments can bring?...If desire causes suffering, it may be because we do not desire wisely, or that we are inexpert at obtaining what we desire...why not get better at fulfilling desire? I cannot believe that the most delicious things were placed here merely to test us, to tempt us, to make it the more difficult for us to achieve the grand prize - they safety of the void. To fashion of life such a petty game is unworthy of both men and gods.” *

Mycroft marked his place and laid the book aside. For the first time since he had entered the room, he touched Lestrade's hand, it was dry and warm, but too still, a bit bruised from when he had fallen, he had put out a hand to stop himself and shortly thereafter, Sherlock had held him while John had tried to stop the bleeding. 

"I'm sorry too. I became accustomed to you coming home every night, relatively unscathed. I was thinking about something that I thought was important when I was readying myself for departure - you were in bed, sending a text. You looked up and smiled at me. I could have, should have stopped and walked over to the bed and made you put your phone down, but I just smiled back and left you to it. If I could have that one moment back, knowing what I know, I'd have dropped my briefcase, my umbrella, undressed and curled up next to you, made you call in sick and stay in bed all day. No. You're right. I'm not like that. You are. You with the tattoo of my initials on your chest. It had been a week, you knew after a week that you wanted to be with me. You. wanted. me. I didn't quite believe it. Until the night you put the papers on my keyboard in front of my eyes, that you had sold your flat, you had no easy escape route left. I love you. I hope you know how much. I don't really believe that you can hear me, but just in case, I want you to know I'm here and I'll be here until you wake up."

At some point he fell asleep reading, but like his brother, he was a light sleeper and roused at the slightest movement or sound. He opened his eyes to see Lestrade watching him. In his lover's cloudy brown eyes, there were questions, confusion, a bit of pain, but mostly what he saw was love and concern for him. As always.

"Gregory...you were shot less than a day ago. You shouldn't even be awake yet, the drugs must be wearing off - damn. I love you. That's what I should be saying right now. I had some long speech planned for when you woke up, and I've forgotten it all. I'm just so glad to see you looking at me like I've lost my mind, and now I'm going to let the circus in so you won't be in so much pain." He picked up Lestrade's hand and kissed it gently, then pushed the nurse's button and indeed, the circus took over.

 

He's awake. - MH

Good. Do you need anything? - SH

No. I have all I need, brother mine. Thank you. - MH

 

"He's lost his mind."

"No, he has just discovered what it's like to almost lose someone he can't live without. Turn off the phone, love, and come over here."

 

Mycroft read the last paragraph and closed the book. "Ridiculous."

"I know," Lestrade whispered, "that's why I love it."

"You've read this before."

"Many times, never heard it read in such a posh voice before, almost worth getting shot -"

"Don't." Mycroft paled and his breath caught.

"Sorry, love. I just meant, it was lovely having this time with you, all to myself, mostly, anyway." He leaned a bit to his right and kissed Mycroft softly.

"Are you ready to leave?"

"More than."

Mycroft climbed out of Lestrade's bed and brought the wheelchair over.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Just get in the chair, Gregory."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but scootched from the bed that had been their domain for the last two weeks and allowed Mycroft to guide him into the seat. He cleared his throat and Mycroft paused his fussing. He looked him in the eye and knelt in front of him; he waited patiently for Lestrade to speak, who blinked hard then began quietly. "I was going to do this later, but I've learned that time is a funny thing - will you - marry me?" Lestrade pulled a box from his pocket with a slight grimace.

For the first time in their relationship, Mycroft's brain stuttered to a complete halt.

"Sherlock dropped this by one day when you had fallen asleep. I had ordered it the day - I skipped lunch and went to the jewelry shop by the station. I was planning a fancy dinner that night -"

"Yes. God, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * from 'Jitterbug Perfume' by Tom Robbins


	18. Checking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why do Mycroft and Anthea show up at the crime scene at the end of A Study in   
> Pink?
> 
> (Just watched ASiP for the umpteenth time...)

"Sir, there's a report -"

"I know, I see it -"

"Near where he was last seen getting out of a taxi."

"Yes."

"I'm sure he's -"

"You don't know for certain."

"No, but -"

"George, get me to the crime scene. NOW."

"Sir."

 

"He's laughing. No, he's giggling. Actually giggling at a crime scene."

"I told you, Sir. I told you he was -"

"Yes."

"He's actually smiling."

"I can see that, Sir."

"Do you want to drive on?"

"Ye- No. No, I need to know for certain that he is unscathed."

"Sir."

"Anthea. Humour me, just the once?"

"Stop here, George."

"Yes, Ms."

 

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

"I'm fine."

"I can see that, just checking."

"Checking up or - ?"

"No. Just checking. Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft?"

"Mmmhmm..."

"You know him."

"All too well. He's my brother."

"Brother?"

"Hmm."

"Ah. I see. No. No, I don't."

"Occasionally between starting wars in places no one gives a rat's arse about, he likes to make sure I'm still breathing. Usually he sends his minions, so you must've actually been a bit concerned."

"Of course I was - am, naturally."

"Naturally. As you can see, I'm still in one piece. You can leave -"

"Do try to call Mummy. She does worry."

"I'm sure you've already let her know of my status."

"Not as yet, no."

"You really were worried this time. Interesting. Well. We are off for Dim Sum, but I can see you've already eaten tonight - please excuse us."

"You were worried."

"Yes, Dr. Watson. But, I see he is in capable hands now. Please -"

"I will do my best."

"That's all I can ask."

"Good night, Mr. Holmes."

"Dr. Watson."


	19. Bedtime Story

"Myc?"

"Sherlock? You shouldn't be in here."

"Why?" Sherlock climbed into the chair next to Mycroft's bed. He rubbed his eyes and bit his lip.

"Because you might get sick." Mycroft whispered, his voice hoarse from coughing.

"I don't care." Sherlock crossed his arms. "I uhm - I mithhed you."

"Missed?"

"Yeah - missed." Sherlock blushed and looked away.

"It's okay, 'Lock. I mith you too."

Sherlock snorted. "Myc -"

"Since you are here, would you read me a story until I fall asleep?"

"Really?"

"Really, truly. How about if you try the first chapter of Treasure Island?"

"I dunno, Myc - "

"Just give it a try? I know you can do it. Please?"

"Okay. I'll twy - uhm, try."

"Thank you, 'Lock." Mycroft closed his eyes and waited for his brother to begin.

"Ahhem. 'Chapter One:The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow: Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17__ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!' " *

"That's my favourite part, Myc. I wish I could be a pirate."

"Why?" Mycroft murmured.

"No weason, - crumb! Reason. Sorry, Myc. Everyone makes fun of me at school. They call me a girl because of my hair and they, they say I talk funny. If I were a pirate -"

"You'd make 'em walk the plank?" Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock shook his curls and thought carefully for a moment. "I'd invite them on board, and they would love it so much, they would stay and be my friend, and we'd go on adventures -"

"You'd be Captain, then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "No, you silly - I'd be First Mate. You'd be Captain, like always."

"Continue on, then, matey."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

" '...in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.

"This is a handy cove," says he at length; "and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop. Much company, mate?"

My father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.

"Well, then," said he, "this is the berth for me. Here you, matey," he cried to the man who trundled the barrow; "bring up alongside and help up my chest. I'll stay here a bit," he continued. "I'm a plain man; rum and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I see what you're at-- there"; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on the threshold. "You can tell me when I've worked through that," says he, looking as fierce as a commander.' " *

Sherlock heard his brother snore quietly then, so he closed the book, leaned over and kissed his brother's feverish forehead. He climbed down from the chair and slipped quietly from the room. "Night, night, Myc, feel better soon." He closed the door behind him.

"Night, 'Lock. I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * from "Treasure Island" by Robert Louis Stevenson


	20. Fish and Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a post of tumblr...

Mycroft wasn't sure it was a wise idea, but he had promised Sherlock to keep an eye on him.

 

"Dr. Watson."

"Piss off."

"Dr. Watson. Get in the car. Please?"

John stopped and leaned into Mycroft's window. "Interesting. Never heard your brother ever say ple - no. Not quite right, he said it once. Right before - what the hell do you want, Mycroft?"

Mycroft had known this wouldn't be easy, but he had been trained by the best, could talk anyone into just about anything, as long as he understood their weakness, and John, at this point, despite his bristly nature still wore the love he had for Sherlock on his sleeve.

"I just wanted to - I miss my brother and I wanted - to chat (he internally cringed at the word) with the person who knew him best. I was thinking we could get some fish and chips, there's a place just around the corner, has a decent lager."

John closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath, and Mycroft waited for him to pull him out of the car and punch him, it was more than his right, but once again, he was surprised by the steely control the doctor showed, his military training, he supposed. He pulled back from the window and nodded. "Yeah, I know the place. I'm not getting in that car, but I'll meet you there."

 

"So, what can I tell you that you don't already know, Myc?" John pushed back from table a bit and crossed his arms. He was thinner already, Mycroft noted, and it had only been a month since Sherlock had 'left.' Drinking again, though trying to keep it under control so work wasn't compromised. Working doubles. Fridays were his only night off, he usually spent the evening checking up on Sherlock's homeless 'friends.' In fact, that was where he was heading when Mycroft had pulled up next to him.

"I didn't know him." Mycroft himself was surprised by his admission, but he suddenly realized how little he knew his brother.

"What? With all the cameras and recording devices, you didn't know him...right. We used to come here - on Fridays if we didn't have a case. He helped put up those shelves, he said it was his way of doing penance - before we met, after his last stint in rehab. We never had to pay, but he always - hmm. He always helped in the back when they got busy after we ate - he was quite the fry cook."

Mycroft nearly fell out of his chair. "My brother? A fry cook?"

John grinned, then drained his beer and nodded. "One of the best, he loved it, he would put on a ridiculous accent, a different one each time, practice - he called it. Did a decent Geordie. 'Nother?"

Mycroft knew he shouldn't, but he pushed his bottle forward and John went to the case to pull out a couple more.

"Was he - happy? Sorry - I mean, before - did he, I know he was -"

"Difficult, a right pain in the arse? Yeah - until - Moriarty came back - after we recovered from Baskerville - he was at the top of his game, you know that - you want to know -. Yeah. We were - let me show you something." John pulled a chain from under his jumper, and Mycroft took a sharp breath, as he saw two gold bands dangling from it. "Damn. He didn't tell you. We got married a week before - he - he left his ring under my pillow, that's how I knew - that's how I can sit here with you, drink a beer, share some chips, shoot the breeze. You always underestimated me, Myc, and him. He gets messages to me - through the network - he's - don't worry - we can talk here - Sherlock always had his bolt-holes, you know that. Shit. Myc. Breathe. I honestly thought he would have told you." John pinched his nose and shook his head. "Just a civil ceremony, nothing big, Greg and Molly and Mike were there, you were out of town, I believe, Putin was acting up that week. I told him - well. I have people to check up on, tell him I'm okay, but to hurry home, yeah?" John got up and laid a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Don't worry, Myc, he'll make it back."

Mycroft blinked hard, but nodded at John and waited until he heard the bell on the door ring before he pulled out his mobile.

 

He's fine. - M

Good. - S

Congratulations are in order I understand. - M

Keep him safe, please. - S

Of course. - M

 

Mycroft shook his head, but sent one more text.

 

Next Friday? - M

Yeah. Why not? - J

Thank you. - M


End file.
